You are the skinned knee and the evergreen, a complex puzzle in a child’s nimble hands. You are an indecipherable leaning, a smooth pebble in the pocket of my shabbiest denim jeans. I had to become myself to take the oil painting off the museum wall and hand it over to you, dear. There are just a few modest colors, but I am taken by the geometric patterns that indicate form. Never can be a cruel word in a month like this. So obvious my wont of fresh linens on the line. So I have chosen a windmill and a spontaneous song to give to the breeze outside your door. Let us be bold in our wily accord. Let us put one foot in front of the other until we’re dancing. You are the avalanche and its 12 fatalities. You are both guidebook and scant number of francs scattered at the scene. I am a sea monster on a medieval map – a reliable indication of at least one unexplored territory. But the conquistadors have all retired. Here remains my lust for the beauty of a verdant meadow. What I know is this: there are people who still learn to play the lyre, perhaps some even as well as Achilles. I’ve heard arguments regarding the relevance of putting a pin on map, but I prefer to see where I’ve been. Simply put: I’d like to thank the construction workers on the Millau Viaduct. The air is thin up there. And the ground far enough to fly.